Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2

by Ray Bradbury

  ‘All colors, all different pattern mixes. One was designed for me by Jackson Pollack before he died. I wear each shirt for a day, or a week, if the going, the answers, are thick, fast, full of excitement and reward. Then off with the old and on with the new. Ten billion glances, ten billion startled responds!

  ‘Might I not market these Rorschach shirts to your psychoanalyst on vacation? Test your friends? Shock your neighbors? Titillate your wife? No, no. This is my own special private most dear fun. No one must share it. Me and my shirts, the sun, the bus, and a thousand afternoons ahead. The beach waits. And on it, my people!

  ‘So I walk the shores of this summer world. There is no winter here, amazing, yes, no winter of discontent it would almost seem, and death a rumor beyond the dunes. I walk along in my own time and way and come on people and let the wind flap my great sailcloth shirt now veering north, south or south-by-west and watch their eyes pop, glide, leer, squint, wonder. And when a certain person says a certain word about my ink-slashed cotton colors I give pause. I chat. I walk with them awhile. We peer into the great glass of the sea. I sidewise peer into their soul. Sometimes we stroll for hours, a longish session with the weather. Usually it takes but that one day and, not knowing with whom they walked, scot-free, they are discharged all unwitting patients. They walk on down the dusky shore toward a fairer brighter eve. Behind their backs, the deaf-blind man waves them bon voyage and trots home there to devour happy suppers, brisk with fine work done.

  ‘Or sometimes I meet some half-slumberer on the sand whose troubles cannot all be fetched out to die in the raw light of one day. Then, as by accident, we collide a week later and walk by the tidal churn doing what has always been done; we have our traveling confessional. For long before pent-up priests and whispers and repentances, friends walked, talked, listened, and in the listening-talk cured each other’s sour despairs. Good friends trade hairballs all the time, give gifts of mutual dismays and so are rid of them.

  ‘Trash collects on lawns and in minds. With bright shirt and nail-tipped trash stick I set out each dawn to … clean up the beaches. So many, oh, so many bodies lying out there in the light. So many minds lost in the dark. I try to walk among them all, without … stumbling …’

  The wind blew in the bus window cool and fresh, making a sea of ripples through the thoughtful old man’s patterned shirt.

  The bus stopped.

  Dr Brokaw suddenly saw where he was and leaped up. ‘Wait!’

  Everyone on the bus turned as if to watch the exit of a star performer. Everyone smiled.

  Dr Brokaw pumped my hand and ran. At the far front end of the bus he turned, amazed at his own forgetfulness, lifted his dark glasses and squinted at me with his weak baby-blue eyes.

  ‘You—’ he said.

  Already, to him, I was a mist, a pointillist dream somewhere out beyond the rim of vision.

  ‘You …’ he called into that fabulous cloud of existence which surrounded and pressed him warm and close, ‘you never told me. What? What?!’

  He stood tall to display that incredible Rorschach shirt which fluttered and swarmed with everchanging line and color.

  I looked. I blinked. I answered.

  ‘A sunrise!’ I cried.

  The doctor reeled with this gentle friendly blow.

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t a sunset?’ he called, cupping one hand to his ear.

  I looked again and smiled. I hoped he saw my smile a thousand miles away within the bus.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘A sunrise. A beautiful sunrise.’

  He shut his eyes to digest the words. His great hands wandered along the shore of his wind-gentled shirt. He nodded. Then he opened his pale eyes, waved once, and stepped out into the world.

  The bus drove on. I looked back once.

  And there went Dr Brokaw advancing straight out and across a beach where lay a random sampling of the world, a thousand bathers in the warm light.

  He seemed to tread lightly upon a water of people.

  The last I saw of him, he was still gloriously afloat.

  Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

  It was just before midnight on Christmas Eve when Father Mellon woke, having slept for only a few minutes. He had a most peculiar urge to rise, go, and swing wide the front door of his church to let the snow in and then go sit in the confessional to wait.

  Wait for what? Who could say? Who might tell? But the urge was so incredibly strong it was not to be denied.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he muttered quietly to himself, as he dressed. ‘I am going mad, am I not? At this hour, who could possibly want or need, and why in blazes should I—’

  But dress he did and down he went and opened wide the front door of the church and stood in awe of the great artwork beyond, better than any painting in history, a tapestry of snow weaving in laces and gentling to roofs and shadowing the lamps and putting shawls on the huddled masses of cars waiting to be blessed at the curb. The snow touched the pavements and then his eyelids and then his heart. He found himself holding his breath with the fickle beauties and then, turning, the snow following at his back, he went to hide in the confessional.

  Damn fool, he thought. Stupid old man. Out of here! Back to your bed!

  But then he heard it; a sound at the door, and footsteps scraping on the pavestones of the church, and at last the damp rustle of some invader fresh to the other side of the confessional. Father Mellon waited.

  ‘Bless me,’ a man’s voice whispered, ‘for I have sinned!’

  Stunned at the quickness of this asking, Father Mellon could only retort:

  ‘How could you know the church would be open and I here?’

  ‘I prayed, Father,’ was the quiet reply. ‘God made you come open up.’

  There seemed no answer to this, so the old priest, and what sounded like a hoarse old sinner, sat for a long cold moment as the clock itched on toward midnight, and at last the refugee from darkness repeated:

  ‘Bless this sinner, Father!’

  But in place of the usual unguents and ointments of words, with Christmas hurrying fast through the snow, Father Mellon leaned toward the lattice window and could not help saying:

  ‘It must be a terrible load of sin you carry to have driven you out on such a night on an impossible mission that turned possible only because God heard and pushed me out of bed.’

  ‘It is a terrible list, Father, as you will find!’

  ‘Then speak, son,’ said the priest, ‘before we both freeze—’

  ‘Well, it was this way—’ whispered the wintry voice behind the thin paneling. ‘– Sixty years back—’

  ‘Speak up! Sixty?!’ The priest gasped. ‘That long past?’

  ‘Sixty!’ And there was a tormented silence.

  ‘Go on,’ said the priest, ashamed of interrupting.

  ‘Sixty years this week, when I was twelve,’ said the gray voice, ‘I Christmas-shopped with my grandmother in a small town back East. We walked both ways. In those days, who had a car? We walked, and coming home with the wrapped gifts, my grandma said something, I’ve long since forgotten what, and I got mad and ran ahead, away from her. Far off, I could hear her call and then cry, terribly, for me to come back, come back, but I wouldn’t. She wailed so, I knew I had hurt her, which made me feel strong and good, so I ran even more, laughing, and beat her to the house and when she came in she was gasping and weeping as if never to stop. I felt ashamed and ran to hide …’

  There was a long silence.

  The priest prompted, ‘Is that it?’

  ‘The list is long,’ mourned the voice beyond the thin panel.

  ‘Continue,’ said the priest, eyes shut.

  ‘I did much the same to my mother, before New Year’s. She angered me. I ran. I heard her cry out behind me. I smiled and ran faster. Why? Why, oh God, why?’

  The priest had no answer.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ he murmured, at last, feeling strangely moved toward the old man beyond.

  ‘On
e summer day,’ said the voice, ‘some bullies beat me. When they were gone, on a bush I saw two butterflies, embraced, lovely. I hated their happiness. I grabbed them in my fist and pulverized them to dust. Oh, Father, the shame!’

  The wind blew in the church door at that moment and both of them glanced up to see a Christmas ghost of snow turned about in the door and falling away in drifts of whiteness to scatter on the pavings.

  ‘There’s one last terrible thing,’ said the old man, hidden away with his grief. And then he said:

  ‘When I was thirteen, again in Christmas week, my dog Bo ran away and was lost three days and nights. I loved him more than life itself. He was special and loving and fine. And all of a sudden the beast was gone, and all his beauty with him. I waited. I cried. I waited. I prayed. I shouted under my breath. I knew he would never, never come back! And then, oh, then, that Christmas Eve at two in the morning, with sleet on the pavements and icicles on roofs and snow falling, I heard a sound in my sleep and woke to hear him scratching the door! I bounded from bed so fast I almost killed myself! I yanked the door open and there was my miserable dog, shivering, excited, covered with dirty slush. I yelled, pulled him in, slammed the door, fell to my knees, grabbed him and wept. What a gift, what a gift! I called his name over and over, and he wept with me, all whines and agonies of joy. And then I stopped. Do you know what I did then? Can you guess the terrible thing? I beat him. Yes, beat him. With my fists, my hands, my palms, and my fists again, crying: how dare you leave, how dare you run off, how dare you do that to me, how dare you, how dare!? And I beat and beat until I was weak and sobbed and had to stop for I saw what I’d done, and he just stood and took it all as if he knew he deserved it, he had failed my love and now I was failing his, and I pulled off and tears streamed from my eyes, my breath strangled, and I grabbed him again and crushed him to me but this time cried: forgive, oh please, Bo, forgive. I didn’t mean it. Oh, Bo, forgive …

  ‘But, oh, Father, he couldn’t forgive me. Who was he? A beast, an animal, a dog, my love. And he looked at me with such great dark eyes that it locked my heart and it’s been locked forever after with shame. I could not then forgive myself. All these years, the memory of my love and how I failed him, and every Christmas since, not the rest of the year, but every Christmas Eve, his ghost comes back, I see the dog, I hear the beating, I know my failure. Oh, God!’

  The man fell silent, weeping.

  And at last the old priest dared a word: ‘And that is why you are here?’

  ‘Yes, Father. Isn’t it awful? Isn’t it terrible?’

  The priest could not answer, for tears were streaming down his face, too, and he found himself unaccountably short of breath.

  ‘Will God forgive me, Father?’ asked the other.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you forgive me, Father?’

  ‘Yes. But let me tell you something now, son. When I was ten, the same things happened. My parents, of course, but then – my dog, the love of my life, who ran off and I hated him for leaving me, and when he came back I, too, loved and beat him, then went back to love. Until this night, I have told no one. The shame has stayed put all these years. I have confessed all to my priest-confessor. But never that. So—’

  There was a pause.

  ‘So, Father?’

  ‘Lord, Lord, dear man, God will forgive us. At long last, we have brought it out, dared to say. And I, I will forgive you. But finally—’

  The old priest could not go on, for new tears were really pouring down his face now.

  The stranger on the other side guessed this and very carefully inquired, ‘Do you want my forgiveness, Father?’

  The priest nodded, silently. Perhaps the other felt the shadow of the nod, for he quickly said, ‘Ah, well. It’s given.’

  And they both sat there for a long moment in the dark and another ghost moved to stand in the door, then sank to snow and drifted away.

  ‘Before you go,’ said the priest, ‘come share a glass of wine.’

  The great clock in the square across from the church struck midnight.

  ‘It’s Christmas, Father,’ said the voice from behind the panel.

  ‘The finest Christmas ever, I think.’

  ‘The finest.’

  The old priest rose and stepped out.

  He waited a moment for some stir, some movement from the opposite side of the confessional.

  There was no sound.

  Frowning, the priest reached out and opened the confessional door and peered into the cubicle.

  There was nothing and no one there.

  His jaw dropped. Snow moved along the back of his neck.

  He put his hand out to feel the darkness.

  The place was empty.

  Turning, he stared at the entry door, and hurried over to look out.

  Snow fell in the last tones of far clocks late-sounding the hour. The streets were deserted.

  Turning again, he saw the tall mirror that stood in the church entry.

  There was an old man, himself, reflected in the cold glass.

  Almost without thinking, he raised his hand and made the sign of blessing. The reflection in the mirror did likewise.

  Then the old priest, wiping his eyes, turned a last time, and went to find the wine.

  Outside, Christmas, like the snow, was everywhere.

  The Pedestrian

  To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.

  Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomblike building was still open.

  Mr Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.

  On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.

  ‘Hello, in there,’ he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. ‘What’s up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?’

  The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless American desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry riverbeds, the streets, for company.

  ‘What is it now?’ he asked the
houses, noticing his wrist watch. ‘Eightthirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?’

  Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not once in all that time.

  He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

  He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.

  A metallic voice called to him:

  ‘Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t move!’

  He halted.

  ‘Put up your hands!’

  ‘But—’ he said.

  ‘Your hands up! Or we’ll shoot!’

  The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.

  ‘Your name?’ said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.

  ‘Leonard Mead,’ he said.

  ‘Speak up!’

  ‘Leonard Mead!’

  ‘Business or profession?’

  ‘I guess you’d call me a writer.’